


faster than without water

by The_Infinite_Alys



Category: Batman (Comics), DCU, DCU (Comics)
Genre: Angst, Bruce Wayne is a Good Parent, Damian Wayne-centric, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Vomiting, damian is a mentally ill child, healing ain't always easy kids, just let him be a normal kid dammit, kind of graphic descriptions of injuries, mentions of canon-typical violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-09
Updated: 2018-12-09
Packaged: 2019-09-14 13:27:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,274
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16913700
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Infinite_Alys/pseuds/The_Infinite_Alys
Summary: When he confided in Richard that he had started becoming ill upon remembering the injuries he’d caused, the man had insisted that was a good thing, that it meant he was healing. But this didn’t feel like healing; it felt like he was unraveling.





	faster than without water

**Author's Note:**

> this was written during a depressive episode, so it's half depression and half self-indulgence. enjoy.

Sometimes Damian felt overraw, exposed, like a scream was welling in the back of his throat just waiting to escape. Like he’d spent days months  _ lifetimes _ swallowing every emotion back and they stayed, pounding in his temples and the sides of his jaw, so strongly that they’d eventually weigh him down and suffocate him. 

He hated how blank and peaceful his thoughts became in the flow of the fight, and then how ill he became, later on, at the memory of their skulls crunching under the soles of his boots. It was moments like those, like this, when he hid in his bathroom with his forehead pressed heavy against the rim of the toilet bowl, that he felt the weariest, the most defenseless. He felt his fingertips shiver against the porcelain, felt the shrieks pooling on the tip of his tongue, and wanted nothing more than to just… disintegrate, blowing away like ash in the wind. 

If he didn’t implode, he would most certainly  _ ex _ plode. A bomb, built to destroy everything around him. Weapon. Monster. Demon. 

He thought about how the grunt’s nose had folded into his skull under Damian’s fists mere hours earlier, and he hauled himself back up to the bowl to gag above the water. His esophagus made a valiant effort, contracting behind his ribs, but nothing came out. 

When he confided in Richard that he had started becoming ill upon remembering the injuries he’d caused, the man had insisted that was a good thing, that it meant he was healing. But this didn’t feel like healing; it felt like he was  _ unraveling _ . 

Damian came back from patrol lately feeling exhausted down to his bones, only finding comfort curled up under his covers, perhaps with Titus or Alfred the cat. Every time he went outside, it felt like he left a part of himself wherever he went. He only felt safe in dark rooms, tucked into corners, wrapped up in layers of sweatshirts and blankets. 

Something was  _ wrong _ , Damian knew as he tried to still his sobs in the pressing, echoing silence of his bathroom. Something was very, very wrong, and he didn’t know what. 

He perked up as the door creaked open, whirling to face his father. Without any thought, he grabbed whatever was closest, a roll of toilet paper, and threw it at his father’s head. 

“ _ Leave me alone! _ ” he tried to shout, but it came out cracked. He felt his face heat up, what a fucking child he was, and he wiped under his eyes with shaking knuckles. 

His father was kneeling. “Damian.” 

Too scared to speak again, Damian just shook his head, looking anywhere but at his father, anywhere but those icy blue eyes. 

Father didn’t approach him, just opened his arms and said, “Come here.” 

Damian resisted for a few moments, trying to keep himself inside. It was moments like these, like this, when he was shown this kindness, a softness he in no way deserved, that he fell apart the most. Sometimes he wished the world was harsher, so he could be the boy of stone and gunmetal everyone intended. 

But he cracked, and he hugged himself and leaned against his father’s chest. The man wrapped sure arms around him, putting a careful hand on his head, and that just made Damian cry harder.  The boy curled shaking arms around his father and buried his face into his shoulder. Father stayed silent for a long time, the only sound echoing on the tiles was Damian blubbering into his shirt. 

Finally, voice scratchy and thoroughly lightheaded, Damian managed, “I hate it. I  _ hate _ it.” 

He hated fighting, he hated having to be comforted, he hated not being a kid, he hated that he wished to be a kid. He hated how sometimes he looked over at children his own age at the mall or the cafes or the streets of Gotham and they laughed and joked together and he hated how sometimes he saw himself there, among them in a way he’d never been and never would be, like he was peering into an alternate universe and the him he wanted and didn’t want to be was a few unreachable millimeters away. He hated every spiteful, anxious, paranoid, pleading, vulnerable thought that filled his head. 

“You’re okay,” Father muttered, rubbing a sure hand up and down his back. “You’re okay, Damian.” 

The boy shook his head. He wished he wasn’t a monster. He wished he didn’t have a heart. He wished he was gone and could start all over again. He wished he was somebody else, anybody else but himself. 

He wished he could just… go away. 

Damian felt his father shift him in his arms, but he nearly startled when the man picked him up. The boy managed, “‘M thirteen, ‘m not a baby.” 

Father didn’t say anything, just carried Damian into his bedroom and placed him down on his bed. Damian sat with his feet over the side, and Titus jumped up to join him, resting his big head on the boy’s lap. He automatically buried his hands in the dog’s fur, scratching him under his ears as his father stood in front of him. 

The man kneeled, trying not to flinch against his injury from patrol that night. Every year, Father grew older, and Damian, like every one of his children, feared he’d begun to feel it. He knew Father was too proud and stubborn to give up easily. A better Robin might be able to talk him down, stop him from hurting himself too badly- Damian stopped that train of thought there. He didn't need to go down _that_ road again; he'd cried enough tonight. 

Father put a hand on each of Damian’s knees, swallowed, and said, “You know I love you, right?” 

Damian nodded, because he knew it consciously. 

Father continued, “And I’ll still love you, no matter what.” 

The boy looked away. Unconditional love: what a concept. 

“You have nothing to prove to me,” Father said. “You’ve grown so much over the past three years, and I’m… I’m so  _ proud _ of you.” Dammit, Father was going to make him cry again. 

“So, please, if you don’t want to do this anymore.” The very thought sent concurrent whirls of relief and panic through Damian’s system. “Tell me.” 

“I don’t want to give up.” The words came were almost a reflex. 

“It isn’t  _ giving up _ ,” Father insisted, and sighed, catching hold of himself. “It’s taking care of yourself.” 

Damian shook his head, still looking solidly down at Titus.

Father was silent for a moment. “Please, Damian, consider it.” 

The boy swallowed, throat clicking, and said, “Alright.” 

Father nodded, before pulling Damian into another hug. “Thank you.” 

With that, Father wished him a good night, and left him alone. 

As Damian drifted off to sleep, he entertained a life where he wasn’t Robin anymore. He went to school, a different school. He made friends, they’d have sleepovers, play video games, go see bad movies. He’d play sports, soccer or hockey, he’d celebrate victory with his team. He’d be in band or school plays, something with late night rehearsals where something stupid would make them all break and burst out laughing for minutes on end. They’d have inside jokes, late night calls, bets where the sole purpose was to do stupid acts as punishments.   

That night, he dreamt he was sitting in a cafe in Gotham, laughing with a group of faceless friends, a kid like any other. Joy bubbled like soda-pop in his chest, giggles rolled liquid off his tongue, and his mind was light enough to float, far above and invincible. 


End file.
